Cregan, the young lord, rose from his seat.
All the lords fell silent, their expressions grave as they looked toward Lord Stark, waiting for him to speak.
Cregan reached behind his back and slowly drew the massive sword strapped there.
Ice.
The greatsword forged from Valyrian steel was five feet long and a palm wide, rippling with watery patterns across its blade.
The ancestral sword of House Stark, passed down for a thousand years.
He raised the sword high.
Firelight reflected off the blade, casting a cold gleam across his young face.
"Since they refuse to leave us a way to survive," he said.
Every eye in the hall was fixed on him.
"Then we go to war."
His voice was not loud, yet every word struck into their hearts like nails.
"I will lead the North onto a path of survival."
He pressed the blade against his palm and drew it across.
Blood flowed out, running down the edge of the sword before dripping onto the floor.
He smeared the blood across his face, from his left cheek to his right, leaving behind a crimson streak.
His expression twisted with struggle, while something burned inside his eyes.
The blood of the wolf ran boiling through his veins.
"Death to the false king!" Cregan roared at the top of his lungs.
The council hall erupted with thunderous shouts.
"Death to the false king!"
"Death to the false king!"
"Death to the false king!"
Old Maester Raymon stood in the corner, watching everything unfold as he let out a quiet sigh.
The lord had joined the war after all.
The Iron Throne's move had been too ruthless.
They had driven the North straight into a corner, forcing them into rebellion.
Was Aegon II a fool?
Maester Raymon could now say with certainty that he was a complete fucking idiot.
He recalled the reports sent from the Citadel.
The southern regions had already begun raising armies. The Hightowers had twenty thousand men marching north. The Lannisters could field another ten thousand, while the Crownlands could still scrape together ten thousand more.
If the Greens truly committed themselves, gathering an army of one hundred thousand would not be difficult.
Over in the Vale, Lady Jeyne had already begun summoning the knights of the Vale.
Those knights were unmatched in all of Westeros, clad head to toe in heavy armor, mounted atop warhorses like moving fortresses.
So long as they did not face dragons, the knights of the Vale could crush armies numbering in the tens of thousands.
The Riverlands lords could also raise over ten thousand men.
How many would die in this war?
He did not know.
He only knew that countless people would die for the Targaryens.
The maester looked toward Lord Cregan.
The young lord stood there in the freezing air, the blood on his face already drying into a dark stain, his gaze unwavering.
Old Maester Raymon remembered that Cregan had been taught by him since childhood.
He had taught him history, arithmetic, and how to become a proper lord.
He remembered how, as a child, Cregan's favorite question had always been:
"Maester, why are the southerners so rich and well-fed while our North is so poor?"
The maester would always answer:
"Because the southern lands are fertile and abundant."
Then Cregan would ask:
"Then why don't we take theirs?"
The maester would always sigh.
"Child, we cannot steal from them. We are lords sworn to protect our people, not brigands."
Now, Cregan truly was about to take it.
Not because he wanted to.
But because if he did not march south and seize food, the people of the North would starve to death.
He saw Cregan turn his head to look at him.
"Maester Raymon."
Old Maester Raymon gave a slight bow.
"Send out conscription orders to every man between forty and sixty," Cregan said steadily.
"Tell them the Iron Throne intends to cut off our grain."
"If they do nothing, then this long winter will starve their families to death."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"I will reorganize the Winter Wolves."
Old Maester Raymon's heart tightened.
The Winter Wolves.
That was one of the North's oldest traditions.
Before the Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms, whenever a long winter came, the North would gather the old men who knew they would not survive the cold and form them into Winter Wolf warbands to ride south and seize food.
Those old men understood they had little time left. In order to let their families survive the winter, they fought like madmen on the battlefield, like berserkers.
Later, after the Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms, they had appeased the North by promising to provide half the grain needed during every long winter.
Only then did the old tradition of the Winter Wolves riding south to raid gradually fade away.
And now, it was beginning again.
"How many men can we raise?" Cregan asked.
Old Maester Raymon calculated silently.
The North's population was not large, but men between forty and sixty...
"Thirty thousand," he said. "Including the elite troops of the noble houses, we can gather around thirty-five thousand in total."
Cregan nodded.
"Each house will contribute part of its elite forces."
"They will form a vanguard of five thousand men and march to join forces in the Riverlands."
"The remaining Winter Wolves will follow behind."
All the lords nodded in agreement.
"Good."
"We'll do it that way."
"We follow Lord Stark."
A Karstark stepped forward with a wide grin.
"My lord, don't worry. My Karstark men will absolutely be the first to charge."
"My boys have been itching for a war for ages. They're practically rotting from boredom sitting at home all day."
A Dustin thumped his chest.
"My Dustin men won't lose to anyone."
"The riders of Barrowton are far better horsemen than those southerners."
Lord Manderly let out a sigh.
"The White Harbor fleet can transport troops. As for marching provisions... I'll gather as much as I can."
Cregan looked at him.
"Lord Wyman, I know the granaries of White Harbor are already stretched thin."
"Gather whatever you can."
"Once we seize grain, your supplies will be replenished first."
Manderly nodded without another word.
A Flint narrowed his eyes and smiled.
"My lord, I've long wanted to try dragon hunting."
Lady Mormont spoke in her rough voice.
"The women of Bear Island can fight too. I'll leave the women behind to defend the island and bring every remaining man with me."
All the lords looked solemnly toward the lady.
Her husband had died over a decade ago, and she alone had held everything together. Bear Island was the northernmost island in the North, with one of the smallest populations, where even the women often had to take up arms.
Cregan looked at them, and a feeling he could not describe rose in his chest.
Pride.
Gratitude.
And...
He could not put it into words.
He merely nodded.
"Good."
Lord Ryswell suddenly spoke.
"My lord, there's a problem."
Cregan looked at him.
"What is it?"
"When we march south, where will the food come from?"
The council hall fell silent for a moment.
It was a very real problem.
Armies needed food. Horses needed fodder. With thirty thousand men marching south, the grain consumed each day would be an astronomical amount.
Cregan remained silent for a while.
"We take it," he said.
Everyone looked at him.
"Wherever we march, we take what we need," Cregan said. "The southerners' grain will become our grain."
A Dustin bared his teeth in a grin.
"Now that sounds right."
A Karstark clapped loudly in approval.
"That's right! Take theirs, eat theirs, let them learn what Northerners are made of!"
Lord Manderly hesitated for a moment.
"My lord, wouldn't that..."
"Wouldn't that what?" Cregan looked at him.
Manderly sighed.
"Wouldn't it stir up the hatred of the southern smallfolk?"
Cregan was silent for a moment.
"Lord Wyman," he said, "if we do not take it, our Northerners will starve to death."
"If we do take it, the southerners will hate us. Which would you choose?"
Lord Manderly had no answer.
Cregan continued.
"I also thought about remaining neutral and negotiating properly with the Targaryens."
"But they gave us no choice."
"They cut off our grain and still expect me to kneel and beg forgiveness."
He paused.
"If they insist on forcing us into rebellion, then let there be war."
Old Maester Raymon stood in the corner, listening to these words as countless emotions welled up inside him.
He remembered those old southern ballads that sang of the Winter Wolves riding south to plunder.
In those songs, the Winter Wolves were demons, brigands, nightmares that made southerners tremble in fear.
But the songs never sang of how those old Winter Wolves marched south so their children back home might survive.
The songs never sang of how, when they marched south, they had already accepted death.
The songs never sang of how every one of them had a name, a family, a story.
Old Maester Raymon let out a sigh.
He thought of the maesters in the Citadel, spending their days studying history, numbers, and ways to make the world better.
Yet none of them had ever found a way for the people of the North to survive a long winter without depending on others.
Cregan raised his head and looked at everyone present.
"My lords," he said, "this war is not for ourselves."
"It is for every person in the North."
"It is so our children can survive this winter."
"It is so our wives do not have to watch us starve to death."
"It is so our old men no longer have to walk into the snowstorms when winter comes."
His voice grew heavier.
"So I entrust this to all of you."
All the lords fell silent for a while.
Then a Karstark spoke.
"My lord, rest easy," he said. "We Northerners never abandon our own."
A Dustin nodded.
"The southerners do not understand that."
"That's why they've lost so many times."
A Flint narrowed his eyes with a grin.
"Let them see what the North truly is."
Lady Mormont said in her rough voice, "Once the fighting's over, I'll treat all of you to drinks."
"The liquor of Bear Island is far better than that southern swill they call wine."
Laughter spread through the council hall.
Cregan smiled as well.
But beneath his smile was a trace of bitterness.
He knew that once they marched south, many of them would never return.
But he had no other choice.
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